


String Theory

by Sylindara



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Red String of Fate, everything becomes angst if you end it before operation kuron is resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylindara/pseuds/Sylindara
Summary: In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.





	String Theory

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the culmination of: 
> 
> 1) Reading a bunch of soulmate AUs and making myself nostalgic for the traditional red string version which is pretty rare in this fandom
> 
> 2) Me wanting to do a soulmate AU from the POV of an alien who didn’t have this custom but got soulmated to a human and had to spend their whole life not understanding what’s going on until they actually meet the human 
> 
> 3) Wanting to write something from Slav’s POV (never again)
> 
> 4) Slav/Shiro being one of my favourite crackships and I love their angst potential with the whole shared Galra prisoner background and how Slav is one of the few people who consistently gets Shiro’s back up.
> 
> I think that says everything re: what this fic is about.

Every action has its corresponding reaction, its consequences that split reality into an infinite web of parallels and divergents. Slav traces them in his mind’s eye, and lets the pure precision of mathematics lead him down the paths of what-could-be and what-might-be and what-is. 

In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.

In other realities, it is a simple sight defect. A mutation that allows him to see in spectrums the rest of his species cannot. No one else can see because their eyes are simply not made for it. But Slav has never seen anything else outside the visible spectrum. Nothing except the red string. Nor does his eyes differ from the average in a measurable way.

In more far-flung ones, it is a sign of his madness. A mental defect instead of a physical one. A lie he conjures up that exposes rot in his brain long before his captivity by the Galra. The string does not exist. There is nothing on the other end.

But in this reality, the red string simply is. Incalculable, unmeasurable, a mystery that defies explanation. A predetermined path to he knows not what, but a constant presence even the Galra cannot take from him. 

At least until the Paladin enters his life through the door of his prison.

Later, Slav calculates the possibility of the Paladin coming through a different entrance, one that does not exist in his cell. He calculates the possibility of the Paladin never coming for him at all. The probabilities are immense. The likelihood of him living in the reality where the other end of his red string of impossibility comes to him while he is still alive, while they are both still alive, is so infinitesimal it sends his vitals elevating through the roof. 

At the time, Slav is too busy elevating his vitals due to other panic-inducing reasons. Starting with the fact that the Paladin wants him to _leave_ _his cell_. Slav is achingly aware of what happens if, when, if they fail to escape. But the Paladin talks of stopping the Galra, and freedom, and a way to be of use that does not involve torture or compromising his morals. And his lucky range of terahertz. Every word the Paladin speaks is a too-attractive trap that makes him hope.

It is almost a relief when the Paladin loses his patience. This, Slav is used to. He lets the familiar snarls of frustration fade into the background as he teases the crease in the blanket just so. The Paladin had actually lasted an amazingly long time before giving in; perhaps that is what the red string means: someone who can put up with Slav and his compulsions.

“Just take the blanket with you!”

Perhaps the red string needs recalibrating. The thought amuses Slav and almost calms him except the Paladin is still asking him to brave the water. There are too many realities where he can’t swim. Slav can’t remember if this is one of them, and the more he tries the more the realities blur together. Perhaps this is the reality where he is already drowning.

It is not any of the realities where Slav is drowning because it is the reality where the Paladin picks him up with his glorious robot arm and carries him heroically across. Sadly, it is also not the reality where the Paladin has two glorious robot arms which would increase their likelihood of survival to actually maybe survivable. But Slav is wrapped around the Paladin’s shoulders, and the arms cupped around him are gentle in their grasp. Slav lets himself enjoy it, until they reach The Cracks.

Slav isn’t even surprised that the Paladin seems to have no regard for his mother. Whatever importance Slav may place on his unquantifiable string and what lies at the end of it, it is clear that this is not the reality where the Paladin differs from everyone else in any appreciable way.

But in the end, the Paladin never forces him over. He listens, and implements Slav’s suggestion instead of making him go along with his. He does not harm him, even though he could have at so many points, even though Slav knows he wants to.

In the end, as realities unspool from his numbers, bright strands of actions and reactions pulling and pushing each other into infinity, Slav picks his reality and slams down on the control panel. His eyes on the tableau in front of him - his torturer, his saviour, the other factors who matter but do not matter. Slav calculates all the ways in which this ends. 

The airlock doors swirl open, reality shunting down another path as Slav follows the pull of his consequences. There is, always and forever, the fear of death; dying in the void of space is such a  _ messy  _ death. But Slav is following his string, and the Paladin is there at the other end. 

Slav does not go to him, but aims himself at one of the others, the one who had praised his suggestion. He keeps some distance between himself and the Paladin; a better vantage to observe. Safe in the arms of the small green one - not an  _ unlucky  _ frequency, but he regrets a little that he hadn’t aimed for the blue one instead - Slav lets himself be relieved for a moment; this is not yet the reality where he dies. He looks over, and contemplates the possibilities of a reality where the end of his string is a positive outcome, that he is defective in neither his eyes nor his brain. And then he remembers,  _ this man does not even honour his mother’s back. _

* * *

In some realities, it is not the Galra Slav must fear, but the Alteans. 

Here, he is a fighter, he is powerful, and Shiro is Sven is a comforting presence at his side. Their string is not tangled but runs true between them, and their bond is the strength of physics and trust. 

They are partners in all the ways that count. From the moment Slav sneaks into the Altean prison and finds that the weapon the Guns of Gamara wanted him to steal is a living, breathing alien. From the moment Slav finally meets the other end of his string and solves the mystery that has plagued him his whole life.

He is the one who breaks Sven out. He is the one who saves him.

* * *

In this reality, Slav sits in the outdated ship of a dead race and calculates how to keep them all alive. He is in his room tonight, having finally aligned everything inside it in optimal ‘staying alive in as many realities as possible’ configurations. So engrossed is he in his work, Slav completely misses dinner and does not even realise until someone knocks on his door. 

“It’s me,” Shiro says, tone even. “I brought you some food.” It takes Slav a mathematical age to remember that he is no longer a prisoner and Shiro is waiting to be allowed entry.

Shiro squeezes inside gingerly when Slav finally opens the door, trying not to touch anything, and stands in the middle of the room with his limbs tucked close, food tray held to his chest. It is comforting to see him act so respectful; it makes Slav wonder once again if the red impossibility that twines around them means something, that Shiro can be so accommodating.

Slav takes a quick look around the room, trying to see what can be moved with the least chance of disaster. After some deliberation, he shifts the tablet on his bed from one end to the other and points at the space left behind. “There. Our survival rate in 42 whole realities will not suffer inordinately if you sit on the creases of this corner of the blanket.”

Shiro takes the seat, his mouth quirking up in a way that does not say ‘danger’. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Does ‘inordinately’ in this case mean we’re already doomed, or that we’re not doomed at all?”

“Only if you sit on that corner and that corner ONLY.” Slav folds his primary arms, his secondary set already reaching out for the tray of food. Shiro lets go of it without even a play at keeping it from him, and Slav finds himself pulling the tray with too much force without even realising he was going to. He should have been able to anticipate this, he should know Shiro well enough by now to be able to predict how he would act - how he wouldn’t be cruel this way, but Slav had seen the food and let his hunger and fear override his calculations. In other realities he would have used just the right amount of force, Slav thinks bitterly, watching the synthetic nutrient goo slop onto the tray. In other realities, the entire plate might have overturned.

But Shiro is here, hovering his hands under the tray as if to catch it in case it falls. “Sorry, sorry,” he says hurriedly. “I should have just put it down somewhere instead.”

Slav’s torso stiffens, straight as a beam. “No! The chances of disaster if you just drop it down haphazardly! The-”

“What  _ are _ the chances of disaster?” Shiro asks, cutting in before Slav can build up more steam for his rant. 

“Very high!” Slav blusters. “There is a 96% chance that someone can trip over it, fall down on something important, smear this nutrient goo all over EVERYTHING.”

“Huh, that actually sounds reasonable.” Shiro blinks. “Good thing I didn’t put it down somewhere then.”

The calm that surrounds him grates at Slav, people aren’t  _ calm _ around him - not even Shiro. But the low-key condescension to Slav’s behaviour is at least familiar. Slav spoons nutrient goo into his mouth and glares.

Shiro ignores it with seeming ease. Except now that Slav is looking, he is not so sure whether Shiro is as calm as he had thought he was. The way Shiro is holding his shoulders, it is both similar and dissimilar to when they were running through the prison. His eyebrows are set low on his forehead, and there is a stiffness to him that reminds Slav a little of the corridors of Beta Traz, when Shiro was so set on forcing Slav over the Cracks. It sets off Slav’s instincts, vestigial ones from before Slav’s species learned to reason. Instincts that tell him to fight or run or both.

“I want to apologise,” Shiro says, all the stiffness leaving his body. This is not the reality Slav had thought they were in. “I’m sorry for shouting at you on our way back. It was uncalled for. I’m not sorry for doing whatever it took to save you while we were in Beta Traz though.”

“I saved us,” Slav points out to give himself time to think, to recalculate.

“Yes, you did.” Shiro nods firmly. The corners of his lips are tucked down. It makes him look - not foreboding, not the way the Galra do when their lips turn down, but - unhappy. “Thank you for saving us. It was brave, what you did, and dangerous.”

“Well.” Slav blinks, uncertain - the number of realities where this happens is so small, almost smaller than the number of realities where he finds the other end of his string and it is a Paladin of Voltron who saves him from the Galra. “I don’t plan on repeating it.”

“Please don’t,” says Shiro, still with that look on his face. “It’s our job to protect  _ you _ .”

It has been so long since Slav felt the emotion that wells up inside him, he doesn’t recognise it at first. And then he does. He feels safe. Slav looks at the string, still hanging between them and not a hint of slack in it - despite the distance they had between them, the distance that has shrunk so much. The probabilities of something positive on the other end of it were so small. The probabilities are still so small. 

Shiro’s voice interrupts the familiar litany of his thoughts. “Are you comfortable here? Do you have everything you need?” Slav looks up to see him glancing around the room. “Nothing’s in an unlucky terahertz range or something?”

Slav blinks slightly at the sudden change in topic, but follows along. “No, no unlucky terahertz ranges here.”

“ _ Do _ you have an unlucky terahertz range?”

“Less of a terahertz range, and more of a colour that doesn’t really exist,” Slav says drily.

Shiro’s mouth works as his brows furrow. “Wait, wait, I think I know this one. Our eyes made it up or something. Purple, right?” 

Slav looks at him. “Yes, exactly.”

“Oh. Right.” Shiro presses his lips together, then opens them again. “Weren’t you working with the Blade of Marmora before?”

“Yes,  _ exactly _ ,” repeats Slav, waving his tertiary arms at the prisoner smock he still wears, his secondary set still occupied with the tray and primary set with the bowl and spoon.

“Fair enough.”

“Surely you understand,” Slav points at the robot arm with a quarternary hand.

Shiro looks down at it, face scrunching up as he does so, but then he is looking back up at Slav and all the wrinkles have smoothed out. “My experiences with the colour purple has actually been quite positive recently.” He turns as if he can see through the walls, in the direction of the hangers that house the Lions, if Slav remembers correctly from his tour of the Castleship.

“The Lion? That’s  _ black _ .” Slav scowls at Shiro, turns to where he is looking, then turns back for good measure. “Is this a problem with your visible spectrum? Are all human eyes like this?”

“No.” Shiro huffs, in inexplicable good humour. “It’s the Black Lion for us too. But it’s also quite purple.”

Slav squints at Shiro’s face, he looks - if it is even possible for humans in the first place - besotted. “Is this a human language thing then?”

“Hmmm.” Shiro’s brows scrunch together. “I don’t think this is a translation issue. It’s two different words in English - the language I speak - as well, and two different concepts. It’s just how the Lion works.”

The explanation explains nothing. Slav sniffs contemptuously. “ _ Magic. _ ”

Shiro just shrugs. “It could be a leftover from Zarkon, that’s not the kind of thing I felt comfortable asking Allura or Coran, but...I think it’s just the Lion itself. It’s Black, but also Purple.”

“That makes no sense scientifically,” Slav says, trying to ignore how Shiro says Zarkon’s name so easily.

“ _ Magic _ ,” says Shiro, and this time his smile is a smirk.

Slav sighs. “I suppose magic is as good a reason as any why all of our species recognise a colour that doesn’t actually exist.” That’s not the only thing Slav sees that doesn’t actually exist, after all. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out with his tertiary hand, watching as his fingers slip through the string like all the other times he had tried.

But this time he is not given a look of confusion for grasping at what everyone else only perceives as air. Shiro is looking at him with wide eyes, skin leeching of colour. Slav’s instincts surge up again and he flinches back, but Shiro is faster, one large hand clamping down on Slav’s outstretched wrist, the tray clattering between them. 

“You can see it?” Shiro’s voice is urgent, but not harsh. Slav squints open his eyes to see Shiro’s face filling his entire field of view. Somehow, his instincts no longer tell him to flee.

“You see the string too,” Slav accuses. He glances to the string and back, in time to see Shiro has just done the same.

“I- I didn’t think…” Shiro stumbles over his words, face slack. Slav knows that look, it is wonder. “The Alteans don’t have it, you know. I thought it was just a human thing. I hadn’t thought you would be able to  _ see _ -”

“You...did this…?” Slav knows as soon as he says it that it’s not true. But nowadays he is all too accustomed to a life where he sits as things are done to him.

Shiro tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know... _ do _ I take responsibility for this? I didn’t do it on purpose, and it’s not something I can control, but this string is - as far as I know - a human construct that I’ve never heard exist in any of the alien races we’ve met. Unless - is it a thing for your species?”

“No,” says Slav. “As far as I know, I am the only one. No one else could see it. It doesn’t exist to them.”

Shiro winces. “Yes, even on Earth - among our species, you can only see the string that is tied to you, no one else’s. If none of them are tied by a string, then it’s only natural they wouldn’t see anything.”

“Then how do you know,” Slav asks, voice rising in horror. “How do you account for it? If it can’t be measured, or quantified, if no one can see it but you and the one who shares your delusions-”

The way Shiro looks at him is so soft, Slav doesn’t understand. “You just have to trust it.” His mouth quirks up again. “Or that’s how it goes in our society. Maybe it is a delusion, but precisely because you share the delusion with the other end of your string, it means something to us. No matter what your life is like, on the other end of your string is someone who will see the world as you do, even if only a small sliver of it. It’s a special bond.”

Slav lets the words sink into him, breaks them down into their component numbers and allows his calculations to reform around them. Possibilities die and spring into life. “What are you going to do now that you know?” Slav asks because he does not know the answer for himself.

Shiro hums. “For humans, this string is a symbol of fate tying us to one another, it shows we’re soulmates. It’s expected that once we find each other we’ll stay together. But, well, human expectations don’t exactly prepare for aliens.”

Slav frowns at that. “But your string must have stretched out into space like mine did.”

Shiro hesitates, the hand that was still circled around Slav’s wrist finally drawing away. “Yes, it did.” He does not explain further.

The dismissal does not hurt, but Slav feels whatever connection that Shiro had drawn between them fade. He could try to reach out, to draw up a connection from his end, but Slav is still not sure if he wants to. Slav looks down at the tray in his lap, then back up. The string is still there, no longer Slav’s delusion but a shared one; whatever bond they have or not have, that hasn’t changed.

“Anyway, we still have to defeat Zarkon first,” Shiro says calmly, as if he doesn’t realise the impossibility of his words. “We can talk about what we’re going to do once it’s over.”

Perhaps it is the result of this new paradigm that Slav has been introduced to, perhaps the idea that the delusion is shared means something to Slav as it means to Shiro, but for once he does not want to bring up their vanishingly small chances of success. Realities unfurl in front him as they always do, but Slav spoons more goo into his mouth and does not speak of their doom.

* * *

In other realities, the string is quantifiable after all. Traceable by the dark magic of Haggar’s druids. The quintessence of two pools together into one, and Haggar follows the string to the end. 

Slav is kept not at Beta Traz, but Central Command. His first view of the end of his string is the Champion fighting for Zarkon’s entertainment. Their first contact is under Haggar’s observation; their string is not a private bond between them, but yet another thing for the Empire to violate.

But they are strong together, they escape together. Together they are unstoppable.

* * *

In this reality, Slav is sneaking onto the Teludav one last time on the eve of their culminating strike against Zarkon. He has made sure everyone had left before he did so, a feat that takes longer than he would have liked - how long does it take for Humans to have an emotional moment together before the big, decisive battle anyway?

But Slav is patient, he knows how to wait. He has been watching the Humans; he makes sure to count every single one of them as they leave, before hunkering down on the ring that runs horizontally across the Teludav. He is just starting to run both primary and secondary set of hands over the curve of one of the lenses when he hears the voice behind him. “Didn’t Coran ban you from the Teludav after you  _ made it explode _ ?”

“Only a small explosion!” The assertion slips out while Slav is still turning. It is the first time he has seen Shiro again since he brought food to his room. Since Slav found out that the string is real. That Shiro is the other end because he sees it too.

“No more explosions, even small ones!” Shiro looms, inserting himself physically between Slav and the Teludav. Slav lets himself be herded, but plops down on the ground the moment they’re off it. 

“If you just let me do what I need to do, we will have an even higher chance of surviving in this reality!” It feels strange to trust that Shiro will listen, but despite his disregard for Slav’s methods, he  _ has _ let Slav act out his compulsions before, and  _ does _ seem to have some respect for Slav and his abilities. All he can do is appeal to Shiro’s better nature.

“What you need to do,” repeats Shiro, robot arm waving wildly. “To this  _ already complete _ Teludav. That you have  _ already  _ blown up.”

“Yes!” Slav beams. “Also, I repeat, that was only a small explosion, nothing as dramatic as ‘blowing up’.”

Shiro frowns. “No, Slav.”

Clearly Slav is a fool for thinking Shiro even has a better nature. Meeting the other end of his string has been nothing but a long, painful road to disillusionment. Despite what Shiro says about the string being a special bond, he has proven time and time again that he does not understand Slav at all. Slav frowns too, the disappointment making him restless. He throws himself forward even though he doesn’t even need his calculations to know his chances of getting past Shiro are somewhere in the negatives.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Shiro catches Slav easily in his arms, taking heavy strides that lead them even further away from the Teludav. The momentum curls Slav around Shiro’s body, a reminder of their breakout from Beta Traz. “Look,” Shiro says with a sigh, “can’t you do whatever you need to do away from here? Preferably somewhere without anything breakable.”

“Nooooooo.” Slav wobbles in Shiro’s grasp, feeling childish and disagreeable. He clings tighter, refusing to let Shiro set him down. It is Shiro’s fault for not listening. For being such a disappointment. For avoiding him after all those pretty words about how they’re soulmates who are supposed to be together.

Shiro remains unsympathetic, dropping down cross-legged on the ground now that they are a decent distance away and taking Slav with him. “Don't you ‘noooo’ me. Act your age, for goodness sakes.” Shiro pauses, mouth slack. “Wait, how old are you?”

Slav pauses too, thinking.

Shiro narrows his eyes at Slav suspiciously. “Why is this something you need to think about?”

“Your words made me realise that in 112 realities you let me on the Teludav when I told you I am prepubescent for my species,” Slav says truthfully, 

Shiro does not stop looking suspicious. “I can't believe that works on me in  _ any  _ reality.”

“Well, to be fair, in some of those realities that was one of the first things I told you about me. And then there are the ones where it's true!” Slav waggles his eyebrows at him, trying to look sly. “This might be one of them.”

“Yeah, no.” The frown deepens on Shiro’s face.

Slav thinks about trying his luck further, but Shiro is pulling at him, hands tangling in Slav’s prisoner smock and keeping him in place. Slav curls tighter in retribution, stretching up from the back of Shiro’s head so he can rest his chin on the crown, feathering out over Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro squints up at him, cross-eyed. “If I let you stay there, will you keep away from the Teludav? What about a distraction. Can I distract you with something?”

“Hmmmmm.” Slav strokes down his chin, tugs at the strands and calculates the probabilities if he pushes now. He is 57 and 77/100ths of a percent sure that this is one of the realities where it will work. “Tell me more about the string. I tried to scan it with the equipment the Castle had. Even they can’t trace it.”

Shiro stills, but does not pull away. “Yeah,” he says, looking away. “The Alteans don’t have it. It was pretty hard to explain the whole thing to them. I’m still not sure if they believe us now, or they’re just humouring us.”

“On the bright side, the Galra doesn’t seem to be able to measure it either.” Not in this reality at least.

Shiro’s face jerks; not upwards, in a smile, or downwards, in a frown, but an intense look into the distance that Slav is intimately familiar with. “Yeah, they can seem so indestructible; they’ve been around for so long, unchallenged. But there are things even they don’t know.” Shiro takes a breath, his face smoothing out. “It’s something to keep in mind. Even if they’re so technologically advanced that they can attach a brand new limb to an alien they’ve been studying for less than a year and have it go without a hitch, they’re as unaware of the red strings of fate as everyone else.”

“Does that mean you have been rethinking my proposal about two robot arms? Because I think it will really improve-”

“No, Slav,” Shiro says exasperatedly, a phrase he has heard too many times today. Shiro’s human hand reaches up, tugging at where Slav had earlier. His grasp is gentle, gentler than Slav’s had been, and the intimacy of the act sends a shiver up Slav’s torso.

Slav slithers back down, pooling into Shiro’s lap this time. “You’re distracting me, my question was about the string.”

“I did say my whole goal is to distract you, remember.” Shiro shifts his arms away from Slav, leaning his weight on them as he flattens his hands against the ground and giving Slav the choice to move away if he wants. Slav stays where he is, looking up into Shiro’s face as the shadows there are banished by a smile. “What else did you want to know?”

57 and 77/100ths of a percent, Slav reminds himself. “Is the string how you knew I would be here?”

“Pretty much,” Shiro says easily. “That’s another aspect of the bond. You can’t really hide from each other, not when the string gives away your general direction.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Slav replies haughtily. “I thought you would just ignore it. Like you’ve been ignoring me.”

Shiro doesn’t reply straight away, the silence between them stretching out long enough that Slav braves another glance upwards. The shadows are back on Shiro’s face. “I-” 

Slav waits, but Shiro doesn’t say any more. “I haven’t seen you since our conversation in my room,” Slav offers. He isn’t sure what response he wants from Shiro.

“I have been avoiding you,” Shiro admits. “I’m- I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been...I’ve been rude,” Shiro says finally, as if he’s not quite sure how to admit to all the outbursts he’s directed at Slav since they’ve met.

“You’re not very good at cooperating,” says Slav, in full agreement.

“ _ I’m  _ not-” Shiro splutters. “ _ I’m _ not cooperative! I-”

Slav watches as Shiro takes deep, shuddering breaths until his face is back to its normal colour. He’s gotten used to the Humans enough that it doesn’t scare him as much as it did, though the fact that he’s not stuck in a confined space with Shiro as his only hope for freedom certainly helps. 

Shiro takes another breath before he speaks. “Forget about cooperation, what I’m talking about is how I haven’t been very good at staying in control. Mostly around you.” 

There is a familiar darkness in Shiro’s eyes, one Slav recognises. That might be why he gives Shiro an out. “The conversation in my room wasn’t so bad. You didn’t shout at me in there.”  _ Just scared me half to death with the intensity of your reveal that the string actually exists. _

“Just scared you half to death by being too intense about our bond?” Shiro raises an eyebrow, emphasising the way he casts his eyes to the string between them.

Slav strokes his chin again, more solid under his fingers than the string will ever be, and says, “So is this all connected to our...bond? To the string?”

Shiro looks away, a habit that Slav understands well enough now to know it is guilt. “No. That’s not how the bond works. That’s not how a person is supposed to treat their soulmate.” And then he is looking at Slav again; the intensity in his eyes and the way Shiro sets his jaw should be scary, dangerous, but it isn’t. “I don’t deal very well with people not listening to me, especially when I can’t understand the rationale behind why you don’t listen to me. I am trying, but...a lot of the time your requirements just sound frivolous. I don’t think I’m worse about it because we are soulmates or anything, but, well, a year as a prisoner of the Galra probably didn’t help the control issues.”

“My requirements are always rational,” Slav says, because he knows what Shiro really wants is absolution, but he doesn’t know if he wants to - if he can - give it to him.

“Only to you,” Shiro says with a sigh.

Slav curls up tighter in Shiro’s lap, and then, because he does know something about being a prisoner of the Galra, he gives Shiro another out. “In our last conversation, you said that you weren’t prepared for aliens. What did you think of your string then? Surely it stretched out into space like mine did. What were you expecting?”

Shiro’s face closes off as it had last time, but - maybe he realises this is Slav’s way of reaching out - he still doesn’t pull away, hasn’t even once in this entire conversation, Slav realises belatedly. Shiro’s human hand reaches up from the ground to trace the space the string doesn’t inhabit. “I said humanity wasn’t expecting aliens, because we aren’t. We haven’t even left our solar system. None of us knew aliens existed until…” The hand in the air waves at his robot arm. “But I’d always wondered - hoped - that my string leading out into the sky meant something. That there’s something out there, on the other end, waiting for me just like everyone else.”

“Me too,” Slav admits, unable to look away from emotions that flits over Shiro’s face as he talks. “I didn’t know what it meant or where it lead, beyond the infinite of space, but I’d always hoped that there was something on the other end.”

“There is,” says Shiro; this time, his smile is not happy. “All those people who thought that there was something wrong with my string, and all it took was a year of captivity by an evil alien empire and being chosen to save the universe by a telepathic robot lion.”

“So many realities where you are already dead.” Slav nods in agreement. “So many realities where you could still die.”

“That’s what you said back in the prison too.” Shiro pauses briefly, then says, “Why did you decide to come with me, when there were...what, only 2% chance of not dying?”

“1 and 97/100ths of a percent actually, it only became 2% thanks to the efforts of my blanket,” Slav corrects him. “And those numbers were only of ME not dying in the prison break. Your chances were worse.”

“Why did you come then?”

Slav shrugs into Shiro’s thigh, uncurling from his lap so that he can flop out over his knees instead. “The other choice was to stay there. Of course I chose you.”

Shiro’s face starts turning red again, but this time not from anger. “Yeah, I get it, any choice starts looking better when you compare to being a prisoner of the Galra.”

“And if I was going to die, at least I managed to find out what was on the other end of the string before that.” Slav shrugs again, watching as Shiro’s face turns even redder.

“We’re not going to die,” Shiro says firmly, and clears his throat. “We will defeat Zarkon, and win; what do you want to do afterwards?”

“You do realise our chances of defeating Zarkon are  _ much, much _ less than our chances of not dying in that prison break?” Slav asks, so he can avoid actually thinking about what Shiro’s asking of him.

“You said that the possibilities are infinite,” Shiro replies, undaunted. “So if we do live in the reality where we will defeat Zarkon, what are your plans?”

“You’re the one who said we’ll talk about it after it’s over.”

This time, Shiro doesn’t respond straight away, closing his eyes and opening them again before saying, “Yes, but that’s just what I want, and that’s not fair to you. What do you want, Slav?”

Slav looks up thoughtfully. All those different emotions he had seen on Shiro’s face, all the feelings he had revealed to Slav, all wiped away now by the determined face he shows to everyone else. When they had met, and Slav had said he survives in less than 1 and 97/100ths of a percent of realities, he hadn’t even known Shiro back then. Now he does, now he knows the chances of Shiro surviving are even smaller than that. And yet, the reality they are in had ended up being the reality where they survived the prison break anyway. “Very well. After it’s all over, we can talk about it then.”

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I’ve noticed on Voltron is that all the aliens have ‘our’ body language; almost everyone is at least vaguely bipedal and most have the same number of mouths/eyes/eyebrows. Which, sure, why not, more things in heaven and earth etc. etc. At least it made it easier for me to write Slav, though I wasn’t sure how much familiarity he would have with lips. But he has been around a lot of Galra after all.


End file.
